Great thank you to Riverdancer17 for beta-work and Brit-picking.
A/N: I thought I should probably warn you, dear readers, that there won't be a big plot in this story. At least right now, I'm not planning anything. I just enjoy writing this AU and the character's evolving relationship.
The ballroom was decorated beautifully. Outside large windows darkness had already fell upon evening London but inside was full of soft light from glass chandeliers. It reflected from the diamond necklaces of beautiful women in long gowns and drowned in the tall glasses of sparkling champagne. The air smelled of expensive perfume and flowers.
The room was full of people but the man of the hour had eyes for only one person. Gregory spotted him as soon as the object of his affections entered the room. Mycroft Holmes was perfect as always, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, gracefully making his way around the room, drifting from one group of people to another, no doubt inquiring after their health and making subtle hints that he knew all about their secrets. Mycroft managed to have that effect on people, intimidating in a very gentle way. But this was a party – he wouldn't be too insistent on business talk.
Unhurriedly, Greg went through the crowd, intending to meet Mycroft on the way. The other man didn't notice him so far, distracted by conversation all around him. He was in his element, words and small gestures, subtle and so easy to miss; but Mycroft Holmes's eyes missed nothing. Their gaze swept over his interlocutors, taking in the smallest details, making deductions, unwrapping their secrets with less effort than it took to open a box of chocolates. And the Holmes loved chocolates even more than he loved other peoples' mysteries.
Greg smiled when Mycroft tore his gaze from the one of the ambassador's hands, where it rested just a little bit too lowdown on his PA's back, and allowed himself a smirk as soon as he passed them. That was his cue, the Prime Minister decided and stepped forward, carefully navigating the crowd and emerging right in front of his target. Mycroft looked only mildly surprised, keeping his expression carefully neutral. It wasn't easy to see through, but at that moment Greg didn't really care. He had a right for at least one dance with the man he liked and Greg wasn't planning on letting said man escape his affections that night. Mycroft had promised.
"Good evening, Mr. Holmes," he started smoothly, eyes glancing over the other man's figure, taking a better look now that the he was so close. "You look wonderful today."
Mycroft rolled his eyes, "Please, there is no need for clichéd flattery, Prime Minister."
"Maybe at least this evening you'd agree to call me by my Christian name. We are not at work right now."
This caused Mycroft to pause; the man narrowed his eyes as he thought the statement over before heaving a staged exasperated sigh, "We'll see."
That was a better answer than Greg could have expected. He grinned and offered to get Mycroft a drink and with a customary 'Are you trying to get me drunk?' the other man conceded. Although, it might not have been such a joke, maybe the Prime Minister was harboring some hopes that the alcohol would be able to make the other feel more relaxed, lower his inhibitions enough for him to agree to a second dance. Well, no one could say that Gregory Lestrade was not an ambitious man.
After that they talked, choosing neutral topics – weather being one of the most popular, such an easy subject to discuss and yet news every day – and Greg managed to keep Mycroft's attention mostly focused on his own persona and words. From time to time some politician or a banker came up to exchange a few words; Gregory could never tell who they were more interested in buttering up. But mostly the two were left alone. There were more than a few curious glances, people became less and less subtle with every new glass of champagne, but otherwise no one bothered them with questions they both were not ready to face. Mycroft had not come to the party as the Prime Minister's date, but the behaviour of the both of them suggested that he might be.
From time to time Mycroft fixed the enquiring gaze of his pale blue eyes on the Prime Minister as if confused, as if expecting something which did not hurry to present itself. Greg knew what the other had been waiting for, dreading maybe, or maybe anticipating. With Mycroft Holmes it was hard to tell.
After they had exhausted some of the most obvious easy conversation topics, weather and an impending rain coming up for the second time by the end, Greg finally turned to his not date and, offering a hand, asked. "Would you care for a dance?"
Mycroft didn't need to act surprised, he was genuinely startled by the question. For the most of the evening they were only engaging in a pleasant if somewhat dull conversation, which was unexpected – Mycroft thought that the Prime Minister would be eager for that one dance he managed to reserve. But the man was a perfect gentleman the whole time, never even once had he mentioned a promise he extracted form Mycroft. And now, when Mycroft was as relaxed and comfortable as he could ever be during such a grand party, Gregory chose to strike; but yet again he did not force Mycroft in fulfilling the promise, he merely asked, giving the other man a chance of an escape. But Mycroft wasn't going to escape. Wordlessly he took the Prime Minister's hand and let himself be lead to the dance floor.
After a second of fumbling, figuring out who'd lead and choosing a right place to put their hands – Greg was very tempted to go just a tad bit lower than Mycroft's waist, they started swaying to a melodious tune. It was awkward at first; such things did not come naturally to Mycroft Holmes, but then they fell into a slow rhythm and simple movements; no need for that elaborate dipping and swirling stuff. The pair attracted curious glances, carefully thrown under pretence of observing the hall, but not fleeting enough to fool anyone. It was hard to tell who was more surprised – those who knew who Mycroft Holmes truly was, or those whose who thought him to be a yet another politician.
Mycroft tried to ignore the looks, he did so with the determination of a man who was very much bothered by them; he fixed his eyes on the Prime Minister's, but his gaze usually slipped, sliding over the man's shoulder to the crowds behind. It was highly bothersome and he already was trying to come up with the idea on how to cover this up later…
"Mycroft." His name, spoken so softly, whispered gently into his ear, not really a word but merely a breath caressing the skin. That was all it took to bring him back to the present, to find his place in this man's arms, grounded by a strong but loving embrace.
They were swaying slowly and Gregory's hand caressed his back over the soft fabric of Mycroft's jacket, palm warm. It was intimate, the most intimate touch they had shared for all the time they had spent together. There was something in that touch, that unobtrusive caress, infinitely sincere, affectionate. Gregory's other hand held Mycroft's as the Prime Minister steered him along the dance floor. It felt nice, but if Mycroft was truthful with himself, it felt wonderful. It felt like he never wanted to let go.
They danced and danced, until the song came to an end, the last notes of a melody fading into the mindless chatter of the guests. The Prime Minister held on to him for a moment longer, as if loath to let go, making a final spin and coming to a stop. Mycroft didn't let go of him either. It was infinitely hard – to lift his head from where it was lying on the Prime Minister's shoulder; it was even more difficult to take a step back, away from the other man's arms – that's why Mycroft couldn't bring himself to do it. Standing in the middle of a ballroom with Gregory Lestrade looking up at him, his brown eyes so open and full of adoration, how could anyone resist? Another melody started, tempo a little faster but still melodious enough to warrant slow swaying in each other's arms.
The Prime Minister didn't move. Mycroft saw his eyes dart around the room once, taking in other dancing couples around them, and then the penetrating gaze settled back on Mycroft, expecting.
Mycroft gulped, finding his voice. "Would you mind dancing with me once more, Prime Minister?" And still the question came as a weak whisper into the other man's ear. Mycroft pulled back an inch to see the other's reaction.
"Of course, Mycroft." He was smiling, a huge grin stretching his lips and the smile crinkling his eyes.
Mycroft looked away as they started moving again, unable to hold that happy gaze for long. The temperature felt too high and he was sure there was a blush staining his cheeks. How ridiculous it was – the way a simple question excited Gregory. How foolish that it made Mycroft just as happy.
Once again whispering in his ear Mycroft admitted. "I like dancing with you, Gregory."